Holding Our Breath
by wcgreen
Summary: We all were holding our breath as we wondered what would come next. Follows "Corrosive" and runs concurrent with "Defiant Ones"
1. Sgt Patrick J Tierney

Queens Property & Evidence Control  
Pearson Place Warehouse  
47-07 Pearson Place  
Long Island City, N.Y. 11101

13 July

The Property Office at Pearson Place Warehouse was at the end of a long, brightly light corridor lined with chain-link fence. Beyond the fence on both sides of the corridor, rows of tall shelves holding cardboard storage barrels stretched seemingly into infinity. At the Property Office, a locked gate in the fencing and a narrow counter protected by more chain-link allowed the public and NYPD personnel to interact with the property officers on duty.

Fontana placed the list of case numbers he had compiled on that counter.

"Could you please send everything ASAP to Detective John Munch at Manhattan SVU?"

The low chuckle he received in reply warned that his request was unlikely to be granted quickly.

_Here's where I could force the issue... tell this numb-nuts how his sarge owes me... how Sgt. Tierney's son, who died LOD, worked with Munch... but there are smoother ways to play this...._

Before the clerk could leave, Fontana tapped his index finger on the counter below the metal fencing.

"I have an appointment to see Sergeant Patrick Tierney. Could you tell him Detective Joseph Fontana is here?"

_That, all by itself, may be enough...._

The officer headed off to Fontana's right and out of sight. Fontana stepped to his right, positioning himself so he could see both the property office and the entrance door at the other end of the corridor.

While waiting, he picked a bit of lint from his lapel.

_Dark gray suit, white shirt, rep strip tie in grays and fuchsia—as conservative as I can get... Judith's suggestion... she wants me to look solid and substantial when I see Skoda... makes sense... I'll take any edge I can get...._

The property officer returned to unlock the gate and let Fontana into the office.

"Down here," he told the detective. "First on the right."

'First on the right' was more of a cubicle with tall Plexiglas walls than an office. Photos and plaques filled the one solid wall behind the desk, mementos of a long career with the NYPD.

The uniformed sergeant behind the desk rose when Fontana entered.

_Five-seven, hundred and fifty pounds, pushing sixty but still a bit of brown in his gray hair... nicotine-stained fingers, strong hand shake, weak smile, and bleary blue eyes... Sgt. Patrick Tierney, newly returned from bereavement leave...._

As soon as the greetings and condolences were offered, Fontana took a seat at the side of Tierney's desk. The sergeant turned his chair to face the detective.

_I'm here because Sgt. Tierney asked me, but he doesn't look too thrilled about it... neither am I... I've got nothing to make him feel better... the truth might set people free, but it rarely makes them happy...._

"How are you doing?" he asked.

Sgt. Tierney seemed to shrink inward as though wanting to hide from that question. His gaze shifted to the floor and his mouth worked for a second before he managed to answer.

"It's been like swimming through wet cement. Things I do every day like shave and eat and go to work—I have to consciously remember to do them. Nothing's easy any more; it's all hard. Alma—well, Alma cries a lot. Something will catch her eye: a photo of Freddie, the roses he helped her plant, a Mass card, and she just closes her eyes and cries. She never makes a sound—she just cries. I hold her and I try to comfort her, but I can't. She wants her boy back... same as me."

Tierney's voice faded on the last three words. His eyes blinked as he lost focus then his gaze returned to Joe's face with an intensity that set the detective back in his chair.

_I saw that same expression twice yesterday... Tom and Ellen Meade, sitting with Van Buren in her office, the two of asking how, after all their years of hoping and praying, their son ended up a dead cop-killer... the lieutenant's eyes locked on me the moment I entered the squad room... I knew immediately what she wanted... hardest thing I've done in weeks was to open her office door and go in...._

Joe cleared his throat.

_This guy wants to know why his son died... he wants to know how his son's killer died... but the 'why?' has no answer and me telling him how Jason Meade died won't bring him any peace...._

Joe cleared his throat again.

"I know what you want, but I gotta tell it my own way. There's a lot to this, and I gotta tell it my own way."

Sgt. Tierney nodded and Joe drew in a deep, procrastinating breath.

"I talked to Jason Meade's parents yesterday morning. They flew in from Missouri to claim their son's body. They both want the same things you want—they want their son back, and they want to know why he is dead. The first one is impossible...."

Joe paused while Tierney's eyes filled with tears. The sergeant leaned forward to pull large white handkerchief from his back pocket. Once he had dabbed at his eyes and blown his nose, Fontana continued.

"The second one requires knowledge I don't have. I don't know why the pervert who took their son chose him and not some other kid. I don't know how he ended up with Dominick Anacacis. I don't know what Anacasis did to make Meade a cop killer—at least, I don't know the specifics."

_The generalities are enough to make me want to puke...._

"All I could do was tell them that the kid they would have raised—the one who was taken from them—never would have killed anyone. All I could do is tell them how I wish with all my heart that I could have brought their Jason back to them instead of blowing him away."

_Scrawny little tow-headed kid, lying face down by his teddy bear with two exit wounds in his back... I'm never gonna lose that image...._

"And I do wish that—just like I wish I'd never walked into Lucky Foods to see your son on the floor with his partner and those two civilians. I wish the security video I watched over and over had ended with Fred and Tammy cuffing Timothy Weston while Mr. Bashir thanked God for being alive. I wish I knew why good cops die, and why little kids get hurt, and why rat bastards like Anacasis exist, but I don't. The only thing I know is...."

Joe stopped to blink away an odd blurriness in his vision.

"The only things I do know is that Fred Tierney was a damn fine cop. Tammy White was a damn fine cop. Jason Meade was both a killer and a victim. We're supposed to stop the first and save the second. I had to choose between the two because I couldn't do them both."

Tierney sagged in his chair. Whatever triumph he might have wanted from Meade's death was lost to the regret in Joe's voice and eyes.

_I also know I'm never gonna hurt the way you're hurting... only a parent can grieve like that, and being a father is one of the things I never bothered to try..._

"I don't know if that answers your questions," Joe whispered, "but it's all I got."

They sat without further conversation, neither man moving, the only sound the harsh intake and outflow of their breathing. Finally, Tierney rose and held out his hand.

"I appreciate all you did, Detective—both for my son and for... for—"

Joe jumped to his feet and grasped the sergeant's hand in both of his.

"Yeah," he said, not knowing what else to say. "I wish it was more."

His leave-taking was awkward: another hand shake, greetings to Mrs. Tierney and an expression of hope that things would be better soon. Joe hurried through the property office and down the fence-lined corridor, eager for his SL500 and its ability to take him away from Patrick Tierney and his grief.

He did note the request for release of evidence still awaiting processing.

_Tierney is conscientious, the type who regularly checks the list of requests to be worked... he'll spot my name and Munch's and he'll make the connection... he'll say the word and people will scurry all over this warehouse looking for those nineteen evidence boxes... no need for me to drop names or get heavy-handed... all I had to do is bare my soul...._

He headed for the Long Island Expressway, his next stop One Police Plaza and the Manhattan Property Office. After that would be his appointment with Emil Skoda.

_It was so much easier when I didn't give a damn what people thought or how they felt... guess there's no way back to that... I'm gonna have to learn to deal with it...._


	2. Tony Profaci

Office of Donald Cragen  
Manhattan SVU  
14 July

Cragen glanced at the list of primaries and cases that Munch had handed him as part of his cases update.

_Both Lennie and Profaci? Damn, if we'd only known, we could have caught this guy.... _

He listened as Munch told him about his meeting with Dill at CSU and the upcoming meeting with Trudy Kimpton at the Vitiligo Foundation.

_A thousand dollars? She's got to be kidding... Munch better be right when he says he'll make it go away—although his plan sounds more like double-talk to me...._

He was about to dismiss Munch when the older man asked, "Why does the name Profaci ring a bell?"

Cragen leaned back in his chair and considered whether or not to answer the question.

_Given his current situation, it can't hurt to remind Munch how I helped put one of my own in jail...._

"Have a seat."

He watched John settle into the side chair with a muffled sigh of relief.

"Tony Profaci served with Lennie Briscoe under me and Lt. Van Buren. An investigation proved he'd been doing favors for Johnny Uzcielli."

Munch raised both eyebrows.

"The son of Giancarlo Uzcielli, the mob boss?"

Cragen nodded.

"What kind of favors?"

"Little things: fixing parking tickets, warning him about raids, getting rid of evidence after Johnny Uzcielli gutted his girlfriend...."

"What?"

Munch's shock brought a bitter smile to Cragen's lips.

_That was exactly my reaction... but no one could ignore Logan's proof...._

"You heard me. Profaci found Uzcielli standing over the dead body of his girlfriend and he not only failed to arrest him, he helped Uzcielli dispose of the evidence...."

_and possibly the body... no one really wanted to dig too deeply into that one...._

"The DA cut Profaci a very generous deal in return for his testimony against Uzcielli—one count of second degree criminal facilitation, one count of official misconduct, and two counts of receiving unlawful gratuities."

"A Class C felony, and three Class A misdemeanors," Munch noted. "What did he get?"

"Three and a half to fifteen and fines totaling eighteen thousand dollars. Profaci served his time at Fishkill and got out in 2005. Of course, without his job, benefits, and pension, those fines were a real bear for him and his wife to pay."

Cragen let his gaze bore straight into Munch's face. John responded with a slight nod.

_Message sent and received..._.

"Anything else, Detective?"

He watched Munch pursed his lips at the cold words.

_Tough... you don't deserve anything friendlier...._

"Just one more," Munch said. "What made him do it? The last place he should have been is in the hip pocket of a mobster."

"Money problems," Cragen told him. "He and Shirley were trying to have kids. _In vitro_ treatments were costing them $12,000 a pop, so Uzcielli's money proved impossible to turn down."

_The ironic thing is that Shirley's pregnancy test came back positive the same day Profaci took the deal. That was rough on her—having and raising twins while her husband did time... Marge suggested we help her out—not that I minded, even though I kept it quiet... supporting a crooked cop and his family may be a good deed in God's eyes, but not as far as the NYPD is concerned...._

"Any other questions?"

When Munch shook his head, Cragen said, "Good. I have Profaci's contact info. Bring me the case summary, and I'll handle calling him. You're dismissed."

A few minutes later, Munch dropped the folder on Cragen's desk. After reading through the data, Cragen picked up his phone and dialed a number with a Schenectady exchange.

"Shirley? Hi, it's Don. Is Tony home? He's outside playing catch? Mind if I bother him? Thanks."

He waited for the ex-detective to come to the phone.

"Tony? It's Don. Which twin were you pitching to?"

"Debbie," Profaci said, "Donnie is at Cub Scout day camp this week."

"Sounds like they're keeping you busy. Look, Tony—I'm calling about an old case of yours. Remember a child murder you worked back in 1994—Marika Bourantas?"

As Profaci recited what he could recall of the facts and theories of the case, Cragen took notes. When asked why Cragen needed the info, Don explained Munch's serial killer theory.

"Damn," Profaci replied. "I always figured it was a pervert who got interrupted before he could finish."

"You weren't the only one fooled. We're looking to pin eighteen other murders on this guy and one of them Lennie worked."

The two men talked for a while longer: work, sports, family. Profaci mentioned how he and his father-in-law had opened a third hobby store in Rensselaer.

"You wouldn't believe how many people are building model railroads and flying radio-controlled planes, Don. It's like everyone is retiring straight into their second childhood."

Happy that things were going well with his friend, Cragen ended the call with a promise to visit in the near future.

_Hard to believe the twins will be in second grade this fall... I haven't seen them since their First Communion last spring... maybe Tullia would enjoy a weekend road trip to Schenectady... Tony likes to barbecue and Shirley does a mean baked bean casserole...._


	3. Couch Sofarelli

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
13 July

_It's not the best place to study—too many people take a shortcut through here, too much noise comes up from below... Couch just shrugged and said 'beggars can't be choosers'... he should know...._

Elliot and the younger detective faced each other across the table in the lounge, Couch facing the stairs, Elliot the children's room at the back of the lounge. Between them were cans of soda, a thick paperback exam study guide, and printed copies of old sergeant exams downloaded from the Internet.

"I know the exam isn't oral," Couch had said when he made the request of Stabler, "but I'm going blind reading and I'm going nuts studying by myself. Judith was quizzing me, but now…."

_... but now, Judith and John are glued to their cold cases… Fin isn't talking to him other than necessary work discussions... Olivia is still steamed over being lied to about becoming lead… that leaves me… yeah, I one said Couch would make a good CO, but not my CO...._

However, disagreeing with the situation did not shake the shit from it.

_Might as well help him pass.… if Sofarelli owes part of his promotion to me, he might listen to advice from me when Cragen puts him in charge…._

"You ready?" Elliot asked.

Couch took a fast gulp of his soda before nodding.

"There are times," Elliot read from the study guide, "when a direct order is not effective. In which of the following situations would a direct order be ineffective?

a.) In dealing with a reluctant worker who is known to be 'lazy.'

b.) In an emergency

c.) When a crucial deadline is looming

d.) When the job at-hand is unpleasant and distasteful."

_I'm going with 'd'… a commander orders you to jump into shit…a good CO makes you understand why it's necessary for you to jump… a great CO helps you climb out afterward…._

"That's 'd'," Couch replied. "Every other situation requires speed or firmness. The last one wants diplomacy."

Elliot flipped to the answer key.

"You got that right. Next question: 'Training should be ongoing for both the newly hired police officer as well as the seasoned veteran.' In general, this statement is:

a.) True, since training can be obsoleted due to the demands of changing social conditions

b.) False, since seasoned veterans remember their training

c.) True, since both rookies and veterans learn best when trained together

d.) False, since the best training is "on the street" experience."

"It's 'a'," Couch answered.

Elliot didn't bother to check the key. "That's obvious."

"Yep. What's next?"

Elliot read through the next three questions and picked the second one.

_Let's personalize this…._

"Next question. Sergeant Sofarelli realizes that he—"

"What? Let me see that."

Couch made a grab for the study guide. Elliot swung his right hand back, keeping the book out of reach.

"Now, this Sergeant Sofarelli realizes that he has a coordination problem between his unit and the robbery unit over the use of the holding tank."

_A problem caused by his premature promotion…._

"Which of the following will permit Sergeant Sofarelli to maximize the coordination potential between the two units?

a.) He must create the potential for coordination and then allow it to happen on its own

b.) He must direct his subordinates to cooperate with the other unit

c.) He must request that his CO or the precinct commander order the two units to cooperate

d.) He must constantly intervene on a personal level to ensure that the needed cooperation occurs between the two units."

Couch stared in space and pondered the question.

"How about I ask Judith to bribe Robbery with muffins?"

_Sounds like a good way to 'create the potential for coordination'...._

"That would work," Elliot admitted, "but I don't think you can write in your own answers."

Couch muttered something about penalties for thinking outside the box.

_Rules and regs, Al... if everyone served their own needs, we'd have a department filled with Donald Cragens, all of them ignoring the victims...._

"In that case," he told Elliot, "I'll take 'a'. It isn't leadership if I do everything myself or if I run to Daddy, and 'b' won't maximize anything."

Elliot checked the answer. "Right again."

_Except you already ran to Daddy—you follow Cragen around like a puppy... you're hoping to follow him up through the ranks... neither of you give a damn who gets trampled in your path...._

He took a swig of soda and set the can down hard enough to slosh the cola in it.

"Next is 'Every rank promotion in the department requires change, but the greatest change occurs when an officer is promoted to sergeant.' The truth in this statement is mainly due to the newly promoted sergeant:

a.) having to learn new duties

b.) needing to show that he/she can do all phases of the job better the officers he/she supervises

c.) having more authority in the new position

d.) being responsible for the first time for the work of someone else in the same work group."

Fin's voice came from behind Elliot.

"What about 'e.) figuring how to lead people he lied to'? Seems that would cause more problems than 'a' through 'd' do."

Elliot watched Couch as he tensed. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Fin glaring at the younger man.

_I'm between them... bad place to be...._

Fin crossed the lounge to stand next by Elliot's left shoulder. Couch carefully observed him as he moved.

_He's sizing Fin up, choosing the best way to leave his chair and take him out... _

"I didn't deliberately lie to you, Fin," Couch told him. "I was ordered to keep quiet about the exam."

"That was Cap'n keeping us in the dark like mushrooms in shit. You knew we'd object like hell about it. Sofarelli...."

The name was a curse word on Fin's lips.

"You don't screw the people who back you up."

Elliot ground his teeth together until his jaw ached from his effort to stay neutral.

_I want to leap to Couch's defense... all those shifts spent together patrolling in our RMP... but he's a big boy... he made this decision based on his needs, not this unit... I also want to pound on him like Fin is... let him know what a dip shit he's being...._

Couch leaned back from the table; his hand rested lightly on the table top. Fin folded his arms across his chest.

_The stance goes great with the scowl, but Couch's got you suckered... keep it to words... don't join John and Judith on Cragen's shit list...._

"I'm not screwing with anyone, Fin. This is an opportunity I can't turn down."

"You don't know enough about this place to be sergeant here," Fin growled back at him.

"I know enough to shuffle papers. I know enough to assign cases, expedite lab work, and keep Cragen off you guys' backs. "

Couch's answer drew Elliot's attention from Fin's anger back to the younger man.

_Damn... that makes sense...._

"Olivia does that just fine."

"Olivia should be on the streets working cases, not running shift meetings and filling out reports. Why waste an experienced detective like that?"

Fin's scowl deepened.

"Fuck logic. You taking the exam because Cragen wants to screw Stabler—sorry, Elliot, but it's true."

Elliot muffled a sigh.

_Here's my chance to diffuse this... keep Fin from hurting Couch's knuckles with his face...._

"Yeah, seemed that way at the time," he told them, "but Cragen did me a favor. I didn't realize how much I resented that paperwork until it was gone."

Couch glanced at Elliot.

_Just long enough to see if I mean it... yeah, I do... I'd never get time for those counseling sessions if I was still lead..._

"I would have taken the exam next year anyway," Couch then said directly to Fin, "I want to command; I joined up with that goal in mind."

Fin held steady, his scowl etched into his face. Couch straightened in his chair and met Fin's glare straight on.

"You're right about one thing. I don't know as much about sex crimes as you do, but I know more than some sergeant brought in from another unit. If I make sergeant, then you, John, Judith, Olivia, and Elliot are on the streets—you guys doing what you do best, and me doing what I do best."

Couch followed that with a shrug, as though asking, "Is that enough to suit you?" Fin's scowl softened in reply.

_He's thinking about it... it's sounds good to me, but I don't want to be lead again... Fin's shaking his head... I guess it isn't enough for him...._

"What I want," Fin said, "is for Cragen to get his head outta his butt. We need a leader here, not some wet-behind-the-ears sergeant who don't know his ass from his elbow."

Fin's mouth twisted as though his next words tasted horrible.

"It's not you, Sofarelli," he admitted. "I'd feel that way about any fresh meat coming in. My problem is how it was done, not you doing it. I'd be happier if you made sergeant and transferred out—did your training on someone else's turf. You get your stripes and every time I see them, I'll see Cragen lying to us."

For the first time since he climbed the stairs, Fin looked down at Elliot.

_Fin's wondering what side I'm on... am I backing Couch or him... good question...._

Elliot blew out a long breath, as much to kill time as a warning that the question was complicated.

_You're not gonna like my answer—either of you...._

"If Cragen gets his promotion, whoever replaces him will work better with Couch than with us—you know Cragen won't say anything good about the people involved with Operation Chestnut. If he gets stiffed again, then I'd rather Couch took the heat from it. I've been crapped on enough over this."

He smiled at Couch.

_No hard feelings, Al... you prove you can do it and I'll back you to the hilt...._

Next to Elliot, Fin ground his teeth so hard, Elliot heard them grinding.

"Yeah, Stabler—I hear you. I don't like it, but I hear you."

Without a glance or word to the younger detective, Fin turned for the stairs. Neither Couch or Elliot spoke until the sound of his tread on the steps faded from their ears.

Stabler broke the silence.

"It's always good to know what you're up against."

"Yep. Forewarned is forearmed."

Couch stared after Fin for a moment then he focused his gaze straight at Elliot.

"The answer to your question is 'd', having command responsibility for the first time. Every job is hard the first time you tackle it."

"You think?"

"Yeah, I think."

Elliot checked the answer key.

"And you think right."

_Let's hope thinking leads to doing it right...._

He flipped back to the list of questions.

"Sergeant Morales has been assigned...."


	4. Richard Stabler

A/N: Velveeta®is a trademarked product owned by Kraft Food. Ardent E/O worshipers probably should skip this chapter.

Residence of the Stabler Family  
Queens, NY  
13 July

Cook two cups of elbow macaroni per box directions and drain. Melt a half-stick of butter in a saucepan. Mix a quarter-cup of flour into the butter to form a _roux_. Add a cup of milk and stir over heat until thickened. Add a half-pound of Velveeta cheese cut into chucks and stir until it melts. Put the macaroni in a buttered casserole and mix the sauce into it. Bake at 350 degrees for twenty minutes and serve.

_And be sure to double the recipe because Richard will eat this quantity in one gulp, leaving Lizzie and me nothing for dinner... forget a hollow leg—that boy has a black hole for a stomach...._

Kathy Stabler was stirring the milk into the _roux_ when her son plopped himself into a kitchen chair behind her. Richard held an olive green rag in his hand, a remnant of one of Elliot's Marine undershirts, and his hands, left cheek, and forehead were streaked with black grease.

"Mom, when's Dad coming back?"

She continued to guide the wooden spoon through its figure-eights in the _roux_ while her mind raced through possible responses.

_Elliot and I finally are talking things through, but there's so much we still have to work out... we're like a boat surrounded by icebergs—so many things could still sink us... I want to make it right... he wants to make it right... but wanting doesn't always mean getting... if it did, none of this would have happened in the first place...._

"Well, right now," she told her son, "it's hard to say."

_Do I explain how we both stop trusting each other—me because Elliot was never here emotionally for me, and Elliot because I shut him out of my life for ignoring me? _

Kathy added the Velveeta chunks to the _roux_ and kept stirring.

"It depends on too many things to say for certain."

_It depends on us rebuilding our trust in each other and learning how to respond not to what we think the other needs, but to each other's true needs—I'm sounding like Dr. Jackson, but what she says is so true... Elliot has to learn to stop juggling work and me and our family, and find a good balance for all of it instead... I have to learn to cope with his job and how he processes it—how to leave him alone when he needs that, and how to listen and understand when he needs to talk... we're both have to learn how to communicate with each other again...._

"Both Dad and I have a lot of things to work out."

_Dr. Jackson said Elliot wasn't shutting me out of his life... he was protecting me from the evils he deals with every day... I never really understood that—I just felt ignored... when I'd lash out at Elliot for ignoring me, it hurt him... he'd withdraw more and I'd yell more... our marriage was like a merry-go-round with no way off... instead riding horses, we rode anger, and loneliness, and fear...._

Kathy poured the sauce over the drained macaroni then put the casserole in the oven.

"When we meet with Dr. Jackson, we're working on the things that went bad between us and finding ways to make them right again."

_How do I explain this? What will make sense to a fourteen-year-old boy?_

She set the oven timer for twenty minutes before joining her son at the kitchen table.

_Maybe this will work...._

Kathy folded her hands on the table before her, an act of prayer asking that her words would be the right ones for the task facing her.

"You see, marriage is supposed to be a safe place where husbands and wives share unconditional love and support, but Dad and I turned ours into a minefield. We had to tip-toe around each other because stepping the wrong way would start a fight."

As she spoke, Richard's gaze dropped from her to the rag in his lap.

"You guys fought all the time," he said. "I used to lay in bed and listen to you."

"I know. That's the worst thing about all this; it didn't just hurt Dad and me. It hurt you and your sisters, too."

_I'm so sorry about that, but I can't fix the past... all I can do now is try to make the future better...._

"Now, Dad and I have to dig up and defuse all those mines before we can start over. That's what we're doing when we meet with Dr. Jackson and when we go out to talk together—we're fixing things so they won't blow up again."

_I'll bet that sounds as lame to you as it does to me...._

She leaned forward, trying to see her son's expression and how he was taking this.

"Does that make sense to you?" she asked.

He raised his head and nodded.

"Yeah, Mom. I guess so, but that's not what I asked."

"What?"

Richard unfolded the rag he was holding. In it were some grimy metal parts and a coiled wire cable.

"My bike brake came apart and I need Dad's help to fix it. Is he coming over after Lizzie's game tonight or do I have to wait for Saturday?"

All Kathy's concern about her son's reaction vanished under a flood of embarrassment.

_Talk about too much info... damn, I must sound like an babbling idiot...._

"Uh,your Dad said he'd be at the game," she told her son, "but he might have to go back to work afterwards. He has tomorrow off; maybe you and he can arrange something for then."

"Okay, I'll ask Dad about it at the game."

Richard wrapped the parts in the rag then stood up. He stared down at his mother for a moment, his expression solemn and intense.

_Much like his dad..._

"Thanks for explaining things, Mom," he said. "I'm glad you and Dad are trying. You want the table set?"

Kathy smiled back at him

"Sure do. Wash up first."

He set the rag on the counter by the phone.

"I'm leaving this here, okay?"

Before she could answer, he was taking the stairs two at a time, heading for the upstairs bathroom.

_Kids... I ask them and ask them to put things away, but they never manage to do it... at least our conversation went well... Richard not only understood what I was trying to say, but he offered to help without me nagging... _

Kathy smiled, both from relief and from pride in her son.

"Hey, Lizard!" she heard him yell. "Mom wants you to set the table."

Kathy let out a long sigh.

_Definitely his father's child...._


	5. Dominick Anacacis

A/N: warning—there's some bad language in this chapter. Also, I give Green some history—if it's not canon, remember that this is a AU story.

Sixty-first Precinct Brooklyn, NY  
11 July

_The Six-One's house may be a century newer than ours, but its interrogation room isn't any better... beige paint instead of green... other than that, it looks just as bad...._

Ed Green stood at the observation window and watched Narcotics wrap up their questioning of Dominick Anacacis.

_Late thirties, 5'8", maybe 140, black hair and eyes... sitting there in his shorts and t-shirt—no one let him grab a robe... he's a major drug trafficker, but he looks like shit first thing in the morning... his lawyer now—he looks very high-priced... if Joe was here, he'd be telling us who designed those threads and exactly how much they cost him...._

Instead of his partner, Lieutenant Van Buren stood beside him. She would work Anacacis with him when they got their turn.

_I know it got Joe an administrative suspension, but reporting his nightmares made sense at the time—it still makes sense... only a fool hits the streets with a whacked-out partner... and Joe still might be wrong... just because Meade had a gun in his teddy bear don't mean he was going to shoot me with it... that's why we're here... to find out from Double-Dom what Meade was capable of...._

While Green pondered his problems, Kings County A.D.A. Steve Lapinski and New York County A.D.A. Alex Borgia, both dressed for a Tuesday at the courthouse and not a Sunday afternoon, were discussing tactics. When Van Buren poked an elbow into his arm, Ed turned his attention to the two lawyers.

Lapinski was saying, "Ol' Hardass knows that his client was busted with over fifty kilograms of cocaine, enough guns to start a war, almost $90,000 in small bills—"

"And don't forget the quarter-ounce of pot under his pillow," Van Buren added.

All four of them snickered.

"Two of his lieutenants are looking for deals," Lapinski continued. "One of them said with the little man gone, their luck was gone."

Ed's stomach lurched.

_That's almost what Jason's daddy called him... Tom Meade looking for news about his little guy.... damn near broke my heart to call him this morning and tell him the news...._

"That's why Anacacis is angling for a deal from us before the Feds get wind of him," Lipinski replied. "In exchange for complete disclosure of his international suppliers, his money launderers, and his distribution state-side, Hardman is demanding that his client be charged only with the drug-related offenses. He knows we won't deport him."

"And that's why," Borgia joined in, "I'm offering immunity for the kidnapping and molestation of Meade. Anacacis will still get hard time for the narcotics charges, but he won't be branded a pedophile, which should make his time in prison a little easier to swallow."

Ed winced.

_Bad choice of words, Counselor...._

Then, furious at the deal Borgia was proposing, he lit into her.

"Prison shouldn't be easy after what he did to Meade and Brandon Stone," he shouted. "Don't cut him any deals. He didn't just molest them; he twisted them until they weren't human any more."

"And don't forget," Van Buren growled, "how Anacacis sent Meade to the Lucky Food Store to kill. It don't matter that he wasn't sent to kill Tierney and White; Anacacis still put their murders in motion."

Borgia sighed. "I know; I know. It doesn't sit well with me either, but that's what Hardman is demanding, and that's how I'm supposed to play it. At least we'll be able to get the info Meade's parents and the families of his victims want—how Anacacis got Meade, what he did to him, and why he killed Tierney, White, Weston, and Bashir."

"And," Van Buren muttered, "if he was going to kill Ed."

Ed raised both eyebrows in reply.

_Wouldn't mind that answer myself, but not at this price... I want what Joe wants—Anacacis' balls nailed to a wall for what he did to those two boys... preferably with him still attached...._

"If we don't get that info now," Borgia continued, "we'll never get it. Anacacis will clam up and his international sources will find other conduits for their product. I'm sorry about this, but I have to. Steve, this is your turf so I'd like your okay before I proceed."

Lipinski gave Anacacis a long, hard stare.

"Go ahead," he said. "I'm sure the bad taste this leaves in my mouth will wash away in a few weeks."

"Trust me," Borgia replied, "this wasn't my idea. It wasn't even my boss' idea. Arthur Branch sees cutting off a major source of drugs as a higher good."

Lipinski snorted at her words. "You mean he sees sticking us with the cost of Anacacis' trial as good for his budget."

Van Buren stepped up to the two attorneys.

"Tell me," the lieutenant said to them, "tell me we at least get to arrest him."

The steel in the lieutenant's voice and the glare Green aimed at Borgia told her what the DA's office could expect if they pissed off the NYPD.

"Of course," Borgia assured the two detectives. "The charges are first degree kidnapping, multiple counts of sexual contact with a minor, multiple counts of first degree aggravated sexual abuse of a minor, two counts first degree murder, and two counts aggravated murder in the death of a police officer."

"That sounds right," Ed asked, "but if you're not going to trial for any of it, why bother? All he's going to get is whatever Narcotics can pin on him."

"It'll be life," Lipinski assured him, "several life sentences. He's a three-time loser now and he'll haul the full weight—"

Van Buren's sigh cut him off. She shook her head and turned her back on the two attorneys.

"I understand that deals have to be made," she said, "but I don't have to like it."

Ed turned away also, too sickened by the deal being offered to protest further.

When Emerson and Bupp emerged from their interrogation a few minutes later, Lipinski apprised them of Borgia's plans. Neither detective liked what he heard. Both looked to Van Buren and Green as though seeking better news.

_If it was Jack McCoy standing here telling us this, I'd suggest that we rush him, but I can't do that to Borgia... my folks didn't raise me like that...._

"So Double-Dom wants to ditch the kiddy fiddler label before he hits prison?" Emerson asked. "Smart man. That's one way to take the 'hard' out of hard time."

Bupp gave his partner the sour look his joke deserved. Borgia verified that the room's video equipment was working then she and the detectives went into the interrogation room. The A.D.A. approached the table where Double-Dom and his lawyer sat. Van Buren and Green remained by the closed door.

Stanley Hardman greeted them with an annoyed grimace, Anacacis with show of arrogance belied by the twitching of his fingers of his right hand, the one cuffed to the table.

"Mr. Anacacis, I'm Assistant District Attorney Alexandra Borgia. This is Lieutenant Van Buren and Detective Green of Manhattan Homicide. Mr. Hardman, I understand your client wishes to disclose every detail of his drug distribution organization to the Kings County District Attorney in exchange for New York County making its charges pertaining to Jason Meade go away."

Hardman's diction was precise and measured.

"Correct, Ms. Borgia. What do you have for us?"

_He doesn't just look expensive, he sounds expensive... wonder what Joe would say that accent cost?_

"I'm prepared to offer what you requested," Borgia replied. "All charges pertaining to Jason Meade will 'go away' once your client has fully disclosed all information about his operation. Do we have a deal?"

The drug dealer leaned close to his attorney and whispered something. While they were conversing, Van Buren glanced at Green, catching his attention. He nodded in reply.

_Soon as there's an opening, I'm through it...._

Anacacis nodded and Hardman's grimace softened.

"My client accepts," he told Borgia.

Anacacis' attention shifted from his lawyer to Green. Ed stared back with feigned disinterest.

_I don't care about your pricey lawyer or designer boxer shorts... you are one sick fuck...._

"Your client understands," Borgia continued, "that, in order to make the charges pertaining to the case of Jason Meade go away, there have to be charges made in the first place. Could you have your client stand please?"

Hardman waved a hand at his client and Anacacis rose to his feet, leaning over to accommodate his cuffed hand. Hardman remained seated.

Green took a step forward.

"Dominick Anacacis, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Jason Meade, sexual contact with a minor, aggravated sexual abuse of a minor, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, contributing to the truancy of a minor..."

He felt the glares of both Borgia and Van Buren, but he ignored them.

_None of this matters... I could charge him with public indecency for running around in his shorts and Borgia would let him shrug it off...._

"... two counts of first degree murder in the deaths of Muhammad Bashir and Timothy Weston, and two counts aggravated murder in the deaths of Detective Fred Tierney and Detective Tammy White. You have the right to remain—"

Hardman interrupted. "We wave your recitation of my clients rights, Detective."

"You'll be arranged on these charges in Manhattan after you're arranged here in Brooklyn," Borgia told Anacacis. "Now, tell us about Jason Meade."

Anacacis slid back into his chair. His free hand pointed in Green's direction.

"You the cop who shot Little Man?"

Green leaned against the beige wall, and folded his arms across his chest before shaking his head.

_I said all I needed to say to you when I arrested you...._

Anacacis grinned, a move that displayed a gold incisor set amid pearly white teeth.

"Then you the one he'd of killed if he wasn't killed first. Killing come natural to Little Man."

Van Buren sat down opposite the drug dealer.

"How did that boy end up with you?"

Anacacis gave her the once-over.

"Can't the pretty one ask the questions?"

"No, she can't," Van Buren snapped at him. "You get the smart one asking. Now, how did Jason Meade end up with you? We know you didn't take him from his family."

Anacacis displayed his incisor again as he laughed at her.

"You think I mean the lawyer? You stupid."

Green unfolded his arms and forced himself to stay put. Van Buren glared down her nose at Anacacis. Hardman put a hand on his client's arm.

"Get this moving, Dom. I don't have all day."

"All right, Stan. I tell them."

The sordid tale had few embellishments: Anacacis had put the word out before leaving Ossining that he was in the market for a young blond boy.

"I don't know where he come from, but my people have him for me when I got to Brooklyn. Someone had taught him the basics and we fit right together."

Ed saw Van Buren lower her right hand out of sight of Anacacis. She then signaled him to hold his place.

_Oh, I ain't falling for his bait... he wants police brutality, he can try his tricks at Rikers...._

"I took him home with me to Seibo. I made my contacts and made my plans. When everything is ready, I come back as Double-Dom, bigger and better the second time."

He smiled as he savored the pleasure of his success.

"Little Man come back with me. He my luck. With him, everything roses. I need something—he do it for me. A dealer scam me? Little Man cut him and run away so fast, no one catch him. A police forget he bought and paid for? Little Man walk down his street like he was seeing friends and slash his fancy new car tires and pour acid on its fancy paint. He need to go in the projects? He black his skin and wear a cap and nobody know it him. He need to go Park Avenue? He wear the fancy clothes I buy him and he look like he live there. Little Man—he do it all. I find the man who kill him, I kill him. No hired gun—just me."

Green raised one eyebrow.

Good thing you'll be in prison until you're old and feeble... killing you would only jam Joe up again....

"You want to know 'bout those two detectives? That a mistake by Little Man. I send him to teach Hasan a lesson—no one steals from Double-Dom. Little Man put freckles on his face for a disguise and he go to kill Hasan. He come back, tell me that he kill Hasan's uncle and three other people—two cops, one punk. I swing my hand hard and I tell Little Man he do what I say, not what he like."

Van Buren leaned closer. "So Little Man likes to kill?"

Anacacis grinned. "Oh, man—do he like to kill. He natural born killer—kill toe-biters and lizards in Seibo. Kill rats in alleys here. I bless the man who brought me Little Man."

Ed held his expression still and tried not to shudder.

_Sounds like Joe called it... he said some kids are born killers...._

He cleared his throat. The sound drew Anacacis' attention to him.

"You called Meade 'Little Man.' What did he call you?"

Anacacis smirked back at him. "Chief. That's what I am—the chief, chief of everything."

_"And was Little Man your first... uh... catamite?"_

Anacacis crinkled his nose and laughed."

"'Catamite?' That what police call my boys? Nah, I had Stone and Burger before Little Man, but they nothing like him."

Hardman's gaze flicked from his client to Green.

_Back off it now—don't make him suspicious...._

"Sounds like you lucked out with him. Must hurt losing companions like that."

Anacacis snarled at him.

"Those others were nothing. Little Man was special. I find who kill him—he's a dead man."

"Didn't you kill the men who killed the other ones?"

"They not dead—"

Hardman's hand shot out in front of his client's face.

"Enough, Dom—enough. Are you finished yet?"

Van Buren caught Green's gaze and held it for an instant before she shook her head.

"Just a few more questions about Meade," she said. "How old was he when your people presented him to you."

"'Presented him to me,' Anacacis repeated. "I like that. He was a present—that for sure. He the age I like to start them—four, maybe five. Baby fat gone, but not growing yet."

"Did you teach him to use firearms?"

"I start him in Seibo and I got a place upstate out where no one ask you why you shooting. I teach Little Man to shoot handguns, shotguns, rifles; he take to the AK-47 like a woman to diamonds. I buy Little Man the best—no cheap-ass street guns for him."

"Did you also buy him a pair of MaXX Stratospheres?"

"Nah. I give Little Man credit card with his name on it. He buy those shoes."

"And you own a Beretta 93R?"

Anacacis leaned back and smiled. "That a sweet, sweet thing. Feels good in my hand."

Van Buren turned in her chair until she faced Borgia.

"That's it for me, Counselor."

"How about you, Detective?" the A.D.A. asked Green.

Ed also nodded.

_Just get me the hell out of here...._

"In that case, we'll get your client arranged as soon as possible. Anything else, Mr. Hardman?"

Hardman did not bother to ask his client before saying "No."

"Then we're out of here. Mr. Anacacis, I wish I could say it's been a pleasure."

She moved so quickly that Green had to rush to open the door for Borgia. Van Buren followed on her heels. As soon they were alone in the observation room, Borgia sagged against the wall.

"I don't know how you guys do it," she told the detectives. "You face evil day after day and you don't seem to flinch."

"Oh, we flinch," Van Buren told her. "We flinch and we cry and we have nightmares. We just know someone has to do it, and that someone is us."

Borgia nodded as she drew in a deep breath.

"I'm glad you spotted the loophole I left for you."

Ed grinned at her.

_I was hoping you'd done that on purpose... it makes me think better of you...._

"The way you kept saying 'Jason Meade' over and over," he told her, "I'm surprised Hardman didn't catch it."

"Now, we got to move quickly," Van Buren said, "and consolidate what we got before Anacacis is moved to Rikers. Ed, call Kirby and see if Stone's psychiatrist will allow him to view a line-up for us today. If he picks Anacacis out, we can charge him with kidnapping and child abuse—right, Counselor?"

Borgia nodded.

"There's no statute of limitations on those crimes and there's nothing in our agreement to protect Anacacis from what he did to Brandon Stone."

Van Buren scowled at her detective.

"Ed, why are you still here? Get moving."

Five hours later, Van Buren and Green were in the parking lot behind the Sixty-first Precinct. They watched as two vehicles departed from the rear of the red brick building—one a bus heading to Rikers, one a van heading back to the Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Hospital.

From Alex Borgia's point of view, the line-up had been a success. Brandon Stone had come out of his self-absorption the instant he spotted Anacacis.

"Chief! That's Chief. Can I talk to him? Can I? Can I? Can I?"

"Which one is Chief?" Borgia asked him.

Stone placed his finger on the one-way glass.

"Number Four. Number Four is Chief. Chief, chief, chief—Chief is back!"

Anacacis, the fourth in line, had no clue how happy his former catamite was to see him. The dealer stood with the other five men, turning left, then right on command, his steady smile showing how invincible he felt himself to be. Stanley Hardman, who glumly watched Stone's enthusiastic identification, lacked his client's arrogance. After Stone was taken away by Kirby security, Hardman had shoved his index finger in Borgia's face and glowered at her.

"If I had known you were going to pull this—"

Borgia finished his sentence for him.

"You would have instructed your client more thoroughly. I promised to make charges go away if they pertained to Jason Meade. It's not my fault Anacacis admitted to a relationship with Brandon Stone during his disclosure."

Dr. Daniel Horner from Kirby did not share Hardman's disappointment over the results of the line-up.

"This was worth missing my sister-in-law's Chinese spareribs," he told Green. "Now, maybe Brandon can confront his past. We're not out of the woods—we'll have to cope with his reaction when he learns that Anacacis doesn't give a damn about him, but it's definitely a start."

Green's reaction fell between the two extremes.

_It's not what I wanted, but it will have to do... now, if I can get out of town so Van Buren has to tell Joe and SVU about Borgia's deal, I'll be happy...._

Van Buren laid a hand on his arm to get his attention.

"It's been a rough case, Ed. You want some time off?"

_You read my mind...._

"Sure, Lieu. I'm thinking about driving up to Buffalo tonight—eat my mom's cooking, work with my dad around the house. If I cough a couple times while I'm there..."

He hunched over and faked a hacking cough.

"... can I claim it as sick days?"

Van Buren chuckled as she replied.

"Go get out of here, but be back Friday for shift change," she told him. "You're due some comp time for the OT hours; I'll work it out."

Her smile vanished.

"I know you and Fontana are on the outs over today. You call him and settle things ASAP. I need you two back working as a team as soon as the review board clears him."

Green arrived at his parent's house after 2 a.m. He slept through most of Monday then spent the evening visiting with his parents. It wasn't until late Tuesday morning that he called Fontana from his parents' back porch. The frost in his partner's greeting warned him to get right to the point.

"I thought I'd call and tell you you were right about Meade," he told Fontana. "When we questioned Double-Dom, he said that kid would have killed me if you hadn't shot him first. He called Meade a natural-born killer."

The long pause that followed his words was punctuated with a sigh from his partner.

_"Is that supposed to make me feel better about taking out a kid?"_

"Joe, you tried to warn me. If I had listened, none of this would have happened."

_"Damn right it wouldn't have. Meade would still be alive—a fucked-up kid spending the rest of his life locked up. His family would attend his trial and his sentencing, visit him in prison—their hearts breaking every time they saw him. I'd be a stressed-out nut case about to blow thanks to this case. And you—you'd still be a punk too damn full of yourself to keep your hide intact. Sounds great, doesn't it?"_

Ed pulled his cell phone from his ear to stare at it.

"Joe? You being sarcastic?"

_"No, I'm not. You trying to trust Meade made me kill him, and that kept him from a lifetime of hell in prison or in a psychiatric hospital. His death gives his family some closure—painful closure, but it's got to beat watching him rot behind bars. We both know I was having trouble with this case, and we both know you take too damn many chances. You learned something this time that might keep you alive next time, and I get a free visit to a shrink. What's to complain about?"_

The memory of his mother's pancakes was lost to the sour taste of bile brought up by Joe's words.

_He's saying that shooting Meade was a good thing for everyone... even for Joe, that's damn bleak...._

"Are things okay with you?"

_"I just finished talking with Fred Tierney's father. I met with Meade's parents yesterday. I found out Sunday that this case hit me worse than I thought it did, and Judith is working doubles until further notice."_

"Why?"

"She and Munch are chasing a serial killer—a real son of a bitch who collects ethnic kids. Tell me you're having more fun than I am."

"Well, I'm standing outside looking at the woods I used to play in when I was little."

_"Woods? I thought you were an oil field brat."_

"Before that, I was a small town brat. Wheatfield didn't have much besides wheat and fields back then. It's still a small town—real quiet and peaceful."

Ed could almost hear his partner shudder.

_"Definitely not my scene. You coming back soon?"_

"Thursday. You and me are supposed to be working Friday day shift."

_"From your mouth to the review board's ears, Ed. Give me a call when you get back into the city. I gotta go now and make a psychiatrist happy."_

"Sure will, Joe. You take care."

_"And you try to not to go country on me—and good job on getting Stone to ID Anacacis. Van Buren told me how it went."_

A click told him that his partner had hung up. Ed drew in a deep breath and stared past his father's carefully manicured lawn to the woods beyond the fence.

_Life was a lot easier when it was just cops and robbers played by us kids...._


	6. Emil Skoda

Office of Lt. Anita Van Buren  
Manhattan Homicide  
27th Precinct  
14 July

_Three murders this week, down one from this week last year... eighteen murders this month... down two from last year... one hundred twenty-six murders so far this year with ninety-one closes... a 72.2% close rate... up 1.3% from last year at this time...._

Anita Van Buren paused her paperwork to stare at that percentage.

_If great police work mattered, I'd be an inspector or chief by now... my people's close rate was well above average when I took the captain's exam, just like it is today... not that One P.P. notices... they stopped caring when I protested being passed over by a white woman with less experience... when I sued, they deliberately shorted me on equipment and personnel—trying to force me out for being 'uppity'... when my suit was dismissed, they keep on ignoring my unit—by then, it was a habit with them... Fontana says SVU has computers on every desk and a portable video wall like Emergency Ops_ _uses... we get to share a couple of laptops and our 'video screen' is the ancient TV in my office...._

She picked up her pen again.

_Pen and paper, computers and big screens—don't make any mind to me... I've been here for fourteen years and I ain't about to quit...._

She was inking in the last figure when a polite knock on her office door interrupted her. In her doorway stood a lanky man in chinos, a tan sports coat, and a rust and brown Tattersall shirt. Under his arm was a tan leather portfolio.

_Dr. Skoda... Emil, I think... this can't be good...._

Behind Skoda in the squadroom, Fontana had spun his chair around. With his glasses low on his nose, he was blatantly staring at the psychiatrist.

_I'm curious, too... Skoda's evaluation is supposed to go straight to the shooting review team for tomorrow's meeting...._

"Dr. Skoda," she greeted him, "what brings you here so late in the afternoon?"

"I thought you might like a preview of my report on Detective Fontana."

She waved the psychiatrist to one of the two chairs in front of her desk. He took the nearer one and set the portfolio on his lap.

"Looks like you're bringing me bad news," she told him. "Am I wrong?"

Skoda nodded again.

"I didn't find anything that would prevent Fontana from returning to duty."

Van Buren peered at him over her reading glasses.

"You're telling me that there's nothing wrong with that man?"

_What kind of a psychiatrist are you?_

Skoda's smile looked too delighted for her comfort.

"No, I'm not saying that. After all, the last time I spoke with anyone as self-absorbed as your detective, that man was in shackles."

Van Buren removed her glasses in case her eyes bugged out and hit them.

_So Fontana really is a nut case?_

"It was fascinating," Skoda continued, "to see the effect a stable, caring, and supportive upbringing has on a narcissistic personality. Had Fontana experienced a less loving and structured familial environment, your detective might have turned into what he appears to be—a wiseguy with more money than morals."

The delighted smile broadened into a grin.

"Instead, he's on our side and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together."

Skoda held the grin for a moment as he savored the memory of his professional pleasure then he focused back on Van Buren.

"But you're not interested in that. You want to know about his fitness for duty."

Van Buren rolled her chair back a few inches.

_Departmental shrinks aren't supposed to be as loony as the people they evaluate...._

"All right," she said to him, "tell me about that."

Skoda pulled a manila folder from his portfolio and set it on her desk.

"My report for the shooting review states that Fontana was suffering some stress-related effects from this case—not surprising, given that he and Green were dealing with the murders of detectives with whom they had worked..."

He held up an index finger and fixed his gaze on Van Buren.

"... however, the nightmares experienced by Fontana were not triggered by the case, and they had no role in his decision to shoot the suspect. That decision was based solely on his training and his evaluation of the situation at hand—a decision that ultimately turned out to be correctly made."

Van Buren considered his words then, because his conclusion did not make sense, she ran through them again.

"You're saying that when Fontana saw Ed and the ESU officer and Meade lined up like Tierney and White and—"

Skoda interrupted her.

"It didn't mean a thing to him. He saw only his partner in imminent danger and reacted accordingly. That's all it was."

"But the nightmares?"

"Fontana's nightmares were triggered by his anxiety over his relationship issues. Those issues are not related to the Meade case."

Van Buren glared at the psychiatrist.

_I don't believe it... this is crazy...._

"You're thinking this is crazy," Skoda told her. "So did I—until I probed deeper and found that Fontana was conflicted between his innate self-absorption and his recently developed need to consider the well-being of someone named Judith, a woman he considers to be his one and only true love.

Skoda's rueful smile and slight shake of his head told Van Buren his low opinion of such myths.

"In order to resolve the conflict, his subconscious presented a series of scenarios in which he had to protect her. These dreams forced him to stretch his boundaries to accommodate the presence of another person in his self-centered universe. That their format was borrowed from the case he was working...."

Skoda held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Unfortunately, psychiatry is an inexact science and I can't explain it."

Van Buren steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them as she considered Skoda's pronouncement.

"In other words," she told Skoda, "the shooting was justified, and Fontana is finally growing up?"

Skoda chuckled at her succinct summary.

"That's one way to put it."

He tapped the folder that he had put on her desk.

"You might want to put it in a safe place."

Van Buren picked it up and leafed through the three-page report.

"Looks straightforward to me. Why?"

Skoda stood up and tucked his portfolio under his arm.

"Because there's something in it that interests both the Manhattan and Bronx DA's offices. They asked me to fax copies to them."

Van Buren thumbed through the pages again.

"I don't see anything in here that warrants their concern."

Skoda paused on his way out of her office.

"Neither do I. Maybe we'll find out what it is at tomorrow's review meeting."


	7. Dave Viks

A/N: Ardent E/O 'shippers probably should skip this chapter.

Memphis BBQ Grille  
104 John Street  
Thursday, 15 July

Olivia did not mention the phone call to anyone. She did not mention the lunch arranged during the phone call to anyone. She did not tell anyone she was spending part of her day-off on a date.

_It wasn't a date, not really... for one thing, it was for lunch, not dinner... and I had talked to him on the phone a couple of times—all work-related... and we did almost get caught in a lawsuit together... so it wasn't a date... it wasn't even a blind date... although I didn't know what he looked like or much of anything about him...._

Because it wasn't a date, she chose a pair of tan slacks, a olive-green shirt open at the neck,and a cotton sweater in tan that served to ward off air conditioning. A knock-off mailbag purse on her shoulder held her weapon and shield case, its weight a reminder that, no matter how much shoptalk she might do with David Viks, Specialist Manager for New York City's Administration for Children's Services, this still was her day-off and it wasn't a date.

_He said he wanted to thank me for helping with the Simma Woolridge case—Fred and Tammy's last case... he thought it was a big deal to pull that info together right after they went down, but it wasn't...._

She also did not tell anyone her first impression of David Viks.

_Damn, he's tall... six-six, six-seven, two hundred-fifty pounds, sandy blond hair, ice blue eyes, no ring, really great smile... makes him look a lot less intimidating...._

Nor did she tell anyone how lunch was followed by a stroll to City Hall Park and a long conversation on a bench by the fountain.

___Light stuff... odd cases worked... odd coworkers... some family history... his aunt taught in the same department as my mother.... his mother took off to join a commune when he was six... his dad worked two jobs and his aunt helped raised him... that means we probably ran into each other when we were little... English Lit. Christmas parties or some thing... neither of us remembers it, though...._

She definitely did not tell anyone how the long conversation led to bowling at an alley in Greenwich Village....

___We started discussing sports that look easy—golf, bicycle racing, bowling... neither one of us had ever been bowling so we decided to see if it really was as easy as it looks... Dave and I did the whole bit—rented shoes, gaudy marble-swirled balls popping out of the floor on the ball return, scores displayed on a screen above us, a pitcher of beer, cheeseburgers and onion rings—they had healthier food, but it didn't fit the mood... Dave and I spent hours there and yes, bowling is a lot harder than it looks...._

Sometime during their second beers and their third game—the one in which their combined scores totaled 115—Dave pulled out photos of his kids.

_"Danielle is ten; she's really into soccer and basketball. Lars is seven; he wants to design Lego sets when he grows up."_

The two children, both with their father's height, blue eyes, and sandy hair, made Olivia smile.

When Dave returned from throwing another gutter ball, Olivia asked about his wife.

___Might as well get that out in the open...._

"Ann died of complications of pregnancy five years ago," Dave said with a trace of sorrow in his voice. "My dad lives with us and handles the nanny duties for me."

Olivia paused while reaching for her ball.

"Really?" she said, the word turned into a weapon by the hint of sarcasm in her voice. "That's rare nowadays."

___And I just went into cop-mode... _

Dave leaned toward her, his gaze searching her face. Olivia grabbed her ball and struggled to slide her fingers into its three holes under his scrutiny. Finally, she dropped it back on the rack and faced him.

"I'm sorry, Dave. I hear so many lies on the job, I have to force myself not to question unexpected euphemisms."

Viks held his focus on her face for a second longer then his lips formed a wry smile.

"I know what you mean. I hear the same sort of lies from some of our clients."

He picked up Olivia's bowling ball.

"'Complications' sounds better than 'she choked on her own vomit during a bout of morning sickness,' which is what really happened. I'd already left for work, but the kids were home with her. Danielle found Ann and she called 911, but...."

As his voice trailed off, the scene sprang forth complete in Olivia's mind: a five-year-old girl leaning over her mother's body, wondering why Mommy wasn't moving or answering.

___How awful! And his daughter did exactly what she was supposed to do, but it didn't help...._

"I'm sorry, Dave. I shouldn't have asked."

He handed over her bowling ball, and waved away her apology.

"Don't be. It would have come up sooner or later. You going to knock a pin down this time?"

___I knocked four down—unfortunately, they were the four in the middle and I followed up with a gutter ball... we both were very good at gutter balls...._

She did not mention to anyone her promise to attend Danielle's soccer game on Sunday. She did not explain how, when she offered Dave her hand as they parted for the evening, he held it in both of his and told her he would be counting the hours until Sunday.

___No one does that anymore... even if I told someone, they'd never believe it...._

All she told Elliot, when he asked about her day-off, was "It was okay," but something warm in her voice and something bright in her eyes told him the real story.


	8. Detective 'Beauty Queen'

Manhattan Homicide Squadroom  
Twenty-Seventh Precinct  
16 July

Per Joe's instructions, Ed Green moved the city-issued lamp and in-boxes to Joe's desk then took possession of the brass and leather desk accessories. Joe's busts of Julius and Octavian Caesar, the glass bottle of Mont Blanc ink, the flags of Italy and Chicago in their stand, and the rest of Joe's personal items went into a box to await Joe's return.

_Joe doesn't want Bradley snagging this stuff for himself ... he said he'd buy a new lamp when he comes back… assuming he comes back…just 'cause he can afford a good lawyer to file his appeal don't mean squat with the bosses… Joe could win big and still end up chasing lost dogs on Staten Island…detectives who get in trouble in this unit always get the brown end of the stick…._

The sound of Tim Bradley by the coffee pot chortling over Joe's firing brought Green out of his thoughts.

_Bradley thinks this was justice… that prank he pulled on Joe and me—all those newspaper articles about us spinning our wheels on the Meade case—that cost him a week's vacation… far as Bradley's concerned, Joe deserves this.…_

He glanced over at Van Buren's office. The lieutenant was at her desk and speaking to a woman with long dark brown hair who was seated with her back to the door.

_Lieu hasn't said who I'm temping with… she better not pair me up with Bradley—not unless she wants me to punch him out right here in the squad…._

Lt. Van Buren had other worries.

_I can't believe they sent me this… this…hell, I don't want to call her a girl—she's been walking a beat on the Lower East Side, and that's no picnic… but she wasn't even a white shield—no time on an investigative unit, no Criminal Investigation Course, no Homicide Investigator's Course… what am I supposed to do—have her mind-meld with one of my guys and get her experience that way?_

She stared at the woman seated before her.

_First, they toss Fontana out like he's yesterday garbage... then they bump this girl to Detective just 'cause she was getting her hair cut when two skels decided to commit armed robbery at a hair salon... if I was paranoid, I'd say the brass was doing this to me on purpose... maybe they are... I could have held my tongue yesterday, but I had to speak my piece... and this is what I get for it...._

The woman stared back at the lieutenant, the brightness in her dark eyes and her perch on the edge of her chair showing how eager she was to jump into her first Homicide investigation.

_Well, they may have given you the rank, but you aren't a detective yet… and I'd better make you look like one before half my team trips over their own dicks trying to stare down your cleavage…._

"Cassady," she said, "turn around and give the detectives in my squadroom a good, hard look and tell me what you see."

Cassady did as she was ordered. Afterwards, she turned back to the lieutenant with a puzzled frown.

"I see your people. Most of them are older, more experienced than me, but I'm ready to learn, Lieu. I'm—"

Van Buren cut her off with a wave of her hand.

"If that's all you see, you better start seeing more or you're gonna be a liability to everyone out there."

"Why? What did I miss?"

Van Buren stood up so she could glare down at her new detective.

_Just like every male detective, suspect, and witness will be doing...._

"Everyone one of my people are professionals," she told Cassady. "That means they work like professionals. They behave like professionals. They _look_ like professionals."

Cassady glanced down at the black scoop-neck top she was wearing.

"That's exactly what I mean," Van Buren told her. "When you come in tomorrow, I expect you looking like a professional. Understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

The young woman grabbed her neckline with both hands. A few tugs and shrugs pulled it to a more modest level on her chest.

"That's better. Can't have the humps you'll be bringing in distracted from your expert interrogation techniques."

"No, Ma'am."

_Damn... doesn't this girl know sarcasm when she hears it?_

Van Buren shook her head and wished again she had kept her mouth shut at Fontana's review.

_My fault for bringing this on myself... now, I get to make the best of it—by dumping her on Ed... he's gonna love this...._

She beckoned Cassady to follow her from the office.

"Let me introduce you to the senior detective you'll be working with. For now, I want you to pay attention to everything he does. Your orders are to 'watch and learn'."


	9. Randolph J Dworkin

A/N: Was anyone else rooting for House to fire Dr. Chris Taub so Peter Jacobson, who played Dworkin, could return to defending the guilty on Law & Order?

This chapter stems from the Law & Order episode "Thinking Makes It So". During the investigation of a kidnapping, Fontana dunks Mitch Lowell's head in an unbelievably clean toilet to get him to tell where the kidnapped girl is. McCoy and defense attorney Randy Dworkin agonize over the niceties of torture, after which Dworkin accuses Fontana of waterboarding—a charge Fontana does not deny on the stand.

Other episodes referenced are "Ghosts", "Red Ball", "Kingmaker", and "Tombstone". Det. Green is not shot in this Alternate Universe.

Nick's Pizzeria  
Grand & Mulberry Streets  
17 July

Fontana was at the back table in the dining area, as far from the entrance as possible. Seated with a stack of manila folders on the chair next to him and with his back to the wall....

_... an apt description of how I feel right now...._

... he glared across the table, where his lunch companion was inhaling a dish of gnocchi with pesto.

_Randolph J. Dworkin, expensive shyster... the retainer I just paid him proves that... __everyone tells me I need this guy because he 'thinks outside the box'... that's another way of saying 'not right in the head'...._

Joe wrapped his hand around his glass of mineral water, the only item he had ordered.

_No way am I breaking bread with this rat bastard, __which means I'd better make things clear up front...._

He aimed the rim of the glass at Dworkin's nose, using it as a substitute for his confiscated service revolver.

"I don't like you," Joe told the man, enunciating each word with husky clarity. "I don't like eating with you, and I don't like you representing me."

Randy Dworkin grinned back at him.

"But I am representing you," he replied, his own words as clear, but much more chipper. "I am eating with you and, thanks to that large check you just signed, I definitely like you."

Dworkin leaned forward to rest his chin on his clasped hands. He then batted his eyelashes at Fontana. When the detective shuddered, the lawyer drew back to a stiff-backed pose of high dudgeon with his hand placed over his heart.

"Have you considered," he told Fontana, "how it wounds me to represent a badge-heavy torturer who wipes his ass with the Bill of Rights?"

Joe set his water glass down hard enough to slosh its contents.

_I got enough of this garbage during the Lowell trial... calling me as a defense witness so you could tell everyone I was a brutal thug.... _

He put both hands on the table and rose in his seat to show how fast he was coming across the table if he didn't like the attorney's response.

"That large check," he informed Dworkin, "buys a civil tongue."

Dworkin held his ground and took another bite of his gnocchi.

"Darn good food, Fontana. I'm glad I suggested this place. Now...."

He speared a noddle dumpling with his fork.

"The legal system in this country is adversarial in nature. This means I, as a defense attorney, do my damnedest to bend the law, the judge, the jury—and anyone and anything else I can bend—to the benefit of my client. My sometimes worthy opponent from the District Attorney's office tries to do the same on behalf of the state."

The fork waved through the air between him and Fontana, Dworkin using it to punctuate the points of his argument.

"We both research the relevant case law," he told the detective. "We write our motions. We weigh juror selections. We use every synapse of our intellects in our efforts to free my client or convict him. Both of us, in our attempts to gain our goal, stray as close as possible to the limits of legality and politeness because, as some learned hand or other once said, the stakes are so damn high."

The attorney held the gnocchi at his eye-level, inches below Fontana's own level gaze.

"And, when the trial is over...."

He placed the fork between his parted lips and bit down on it. A sharp tug and the fork emerged empty. Dworkin speared another gnocchi and held it before his face.

"I move on to the next client, just like the prosecution moves on to its next case. Another client, another adversarial contest. Everything said in the heat of battle vanishes. Only the legal precedent I might create remains—that, and my sterling wit."

He looked so pleased with himself that Fontana considered splashing him with mineral water.

_I'll claim my hand slipped...._

Instead, he said, "Those humps you get off go right back on the streets."

"Sometimes," Dworkin shot back, "those 'humps', as you so quaintly describe them, deserve to be on the streets. Sometimes...."

Dworkin set his fork down and shrugged off the rest of his reply.

_Yeah... sometimes, your deserving hump kills another victim...._

"How well do you sleep at night?" he asked Dworkin.

"About as well as you sleep after arresting an innocent man. Look, Fontana—"

The teasing smirk vanished, replaced by a solemn frown and a steady gaze.

"I've taken your salt, which entitles you to the best defense I can muster. It also entitles you to more politeness than I've shown you so far. I won't taunt you again—at least, not while I'm representing you. Once you're reinstated and you pay my final bill, I go back to not liking you—unless you buy me a penthouse and make me a kept man."

Fontana tightened his grip on his water glass. Dworkin gave an exaggerated sigh.

"Always with the water, Detective. Just kidding; I said that only because I like the faces you make when you're annoyed."

He leaned over his plate, closer to his client.

"Your mom ever warn you your face could freeze like that?"

Fontana glared at him.

"You really should take things easier," Dworkin told him. "How about some wine?"

"No."

"Some food?"

"Are you deaf or stupid? I said, 'No.'"

Dworkin raised both hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay—if you don't want to mix business with pasta, fine by me. Your DEA rep filled me in on your situation."

He slid his plate to one side, clearing the decks for serious business. Fontana drew in a deep breath that served to dampen his anger.

_I've got to remember... killing my lawyer won't get my shield back...._

"Now," Dworkin asked, "what do we have to work with?"

"My reputation as a Homicide detective."

"As my nana would say, that and a quarter will buy you a blintz. What else do you have?"

Fontana gritted his teeth and grabbed the topmost folder from the chair next to him.

"The report Dr. Skoda wrote for the shooting review."

Dworkin took the folder and paged through it.

"Much more useful. Emil Skoda has an excellent reputation...."

Dworkin let his sentence trail off. Joe filled in the rest.

_You're saying he's more respected than me... thanks, you little twerp...._

Fontana handed over the next folder.

"I also got Lieutenant Van Buren's copy of the minutes from the review meeting."

Dworkin glanced at the top sheet in the folder.

"This is good, too. You should write up your own notes on the meeting as soon as you can. Now, if we could get a copy of your annual reviews from your personnel records, I'd be a happy man."

Fontana rested his hand on the last item on the chair, a thick inter-office correspondence envelope with only three signatures of receipt on its front.

"You need them?"

"Damn right I need them. They either support our contention that you didn't deserve to be fired or they support the NYPD's contention that you did. Either way, they're vital."

The attorney sipped his wine.

"Here's how the dance goes: I request a copy of your jacket. The NYPD stonewalls my request. I become indignant. They dig in their heels. I insist. They ignore. I do my best imitation of an irresistible force and they do their best imitation of an immovable object until I break down and get a subpoena. They then send me a stack of paper so covered with black marks that they are completely useless. I throw up my hands and regret not owning the NYPD's Magic Marker concession. They chalk it up as a 'win'."

Dworkin aimed his last gnocchi at Fontana. "You may be 'the thin blue line' but One Police Plaza is the 'thick red tape'."

Fontana leaned back against the wall and grinned at his attorney.

_Hate to do it, but I'm about you very happy...._

He handed over the envelope.

"You can save that dance for someone else."

Dworkin eyed the envelope with suspicion even as he took it from Fontana's hand. He opened its flap and riffled through its contents.

"This is an official copy of your personnel records," he said. "How did you get this?"

"It was delivered to my partner during his shift Friday; that's his signature above mine and our desk sergeant's above his. As to why it was delivered...."

It was Fontana's turn to shrug.

"Beats the hell out of me."

_And I'm not sure what floored me more—getting my jacket delivered to me or Ed telling me my replacement is 'Detective Beauty Queen' from the papers... talk about a slap in the face...._

The realization that Dworkin was staring at the envelope as though celestial messengers had delivered it on a platinum platter brought Joe from his thoughts.

"Fontana," Dworkin said, with all trace of snideness gone from his voice, "you must have friends in very high places—or extremely low ones—to rate such a miracle."

Dworkin pulled several papers from the envelope before placing it carefully on the other folders.

"Here's what we have to negate," he told Fontana, "all these complaints filed against you."

He stacked the papers before him, one by one.

"Ratko Petrovich—he says you expressed regret for not killing him, and you inflicted excruciating pain while questioning him in his hospital room. That's a complaint of force."

_Petrovich killed an undercover cop and shot an ESU officer... don't ask me to apologize...._

He placed a second paper on the first one.

"Nicholas Zona—you promised him a liquor license for lying about his brother's participation in the murder of Sarah Dolan. That's suborning perjury and bribery."

_I promised nothing... it's not my fault Nick Zona misheard me...._

Another sheet joined the stack.

"Robert Dolan—multiple complaints of harassment, false arrest, detention without cause, et cetera. I guess he doesn't appreciate your zeal for law enforcement."

Fontana growled a warning at the added comment.

_I had every reason to suspect Sarah Dolan's father of her murder... he found the body... he rearranged the crime scene... he had no alibi and he acted guilty as hell... yeah, I ended up being wrong, but so was everybody else... I at least tried to make amends—not my fault Dolan slammed the door in my face...._

Dworkin added some more sheets to the stack.

"Stu Arlen, Enrique Santiago, Helen Morrison, Tad Jenner—all claim you threatened them with physical violence."

"I did not," Fontana shot back. "I explained to them the difference between a threat and a comment. If they felt threatened, then they had other reasons to be scared besides me."

Dworkin leaned back in his chair and opened his eyes as wide as possible.

"Oh, I believe you, Detective. You're just too cute and cuddly to scare anyone."

Before Fontana could snap back at him, Dworkin placed the last three sheets on the stack.

"Martin Reyes—had his head slammed against the roof of your car while being placed in the back seat for transport. Carmelo Hanks—his eye met the back of your hand while he was in the Twenty-Seventh Precinct's interrogation room. Mitch Lowell—well, we all know what you did to him."

Dworkin tipped his head and peered up at Fontana.

"The Dolan complaints start with the first investigation of his daughter's murder, but the rest are from the past two years. With you gathering complaints at this rate, then it's easy to see why your superiors dumped you—you're a rogue cop."

Fontana slammed his fist on the table.

"I am not," he protested. "I was framed on this. Deputy Commissioner Balzano took the review of Meade's shooting and turned it into a termination review—no probation, no discipline review, no special monitoring. Yeah, I've had my share of rips, but Balzano ignored all the rules and regs to yank my shield, and I want it back."

He pointed his forefinger at Dworkin's nose.

"You want to get cute with them? Go ahead. With me, you play it straight. Got it?"

Dworkin smiled back at him.

"It will be a pleasure to clear your good name and put you back on the streets of this fair city."

He slid the loose sheets back into the envelope then gathered the stack of folders.

"Thank you for the scintillating conversation and the delicious meal. I'll get back with you as soon as I've read through all this, probably on Tuesday."

Dworkin stood up and turned to leave, then swung back to face the detective. The cherubic smile that so annoyed Fontana was gone, replaced by a tight, almost haunted solemnness and a gaze that fell just short of meeting Fontana's eyes.

"The Lowell case," Dworkin told him, "forced me to question my principles, to wonder if my rock-solid belief in the moral wrongness of coercion was justified. Truth is, I cannot condone what you did to my client, but I'm not completely sorry you did it."

Dworkin then met Fontana's gaze with a glare as intense as the ones Fontana had been aiming at him.

"I hate that dichotomy. I want a world where the abuse you committed isn't only moral reprehensible, it's also impossible."

Fontana gaped at him with disbelief.

_And you think I don't? You think I like cases where children are treated like pawns in a game? You think I like finding them scared out of their wits, brutalized, or dead? _

"So do I," he growled back at the attorney. "Thing is, I want a world where scum like Lowell never kidnap little girls. You want a world where cops like me never lay a hand on scum like Lowell."

Dworkin slumped as though Atlas had shifted the weight of his burden to the attorney's shoulders.

"They're both the same world, Fontana. If only it were ours."

With that, he departed, leaving Fontana alone with his thoughts.


End file.
